The Fourth Stooge

I, Farid Adhuka Al-Amit, Killed Him

In August of the year 2—, as a freelance journalist, I was granted unprecedented access to a brigade of Islamic fighters in northern ————. Why they took me in I do not know. It was effectively suicidal, and I had resigned myself to death, or at best, severe psychological and bodily injury. During my five day assignment, they treated me as they would a leper, keeping their distance though it was clear they disdained me. Their reluctant acceptance was in part due to the individual under whose care I was placed: a unique man by the name of Farid Adhuka Al-Amit, an Arab who spoke fluent English in a common, yet awkward American accent. He was a high ranking officer in the ———— province of the organization which calls itself ————. Although other fighters threatened and harassed me, Adhuka Al-Amit insulated me from their advances. He was a tall man, thin and sinewy with a sharp featured and ambiguous face: not quite male, nor quite human. He was bald with a long beard that stretched to the top of his chest, upon which he wore a black shirt and a khaki ammunition pouch, four pockets abreast. Clipped to the pouch was a long blade of Damascus steel with which he frequently pared his fingernails. His hands were never calloused and were very clean. He wore camouflaged pants and heavy military boots. I never saw him dressed any other way, day or night.

In the following account, I relate as nearly as I can remember the words of Al-Amit as he lie dying from multiple gunshot wounds to the abdomen received while fighting ———— on the final day of my assignment. Following his death, I immediately left the mujahideen, for fear that without the protection of Al-Amit, some misfortune would befall me.

In his last minutes, during which he was in a semi-delirious, yet highly lucid state, he recounted the supposed events of an unknown morning now lost to us. I had no reason to disbelieve any of the information he stated. But since, I have become highly skeptical for reasons I will share in time. Therefore I relate this story not as journalism, but as novelty—or perhaps as something more like a confession.

The following has been compiled with the help of short hand notes taken during the interview as I was unable to access any recording equipment during the firefight. What follows are, to the extent of my ability to recall and comprehend them, the final earthly words of Adhuka Al-Amit:

Perhaps you should like me to tell you how I grew up? How I once ran happy through the streets in a Western city, enjoyed school and friends. How I had a good family, how we had tea every afternoon together around an old pine table. And then I am sure you should like to know how I find myself dying here?

But none of that concerns us directly. That story is of no significance in this present moment—the moment in which we exist together. So I shall tell you about a morning that occurs for me every moment. On this morning, I met a man named Father Timothy Erent, and I, Farid Adhuka Al-Amit, killed him.